


Not the Secretary

by breathtaken



Series: The New Normal [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Explicit Sexual Content, Genderfluid Character, Other, Trans!Musketeer(s), Trans!d'Artagnan, kink bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 21:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He reminds himself for possibly the third time this week that d'Artagnan's not his secretary; although that didn't stop him nearly dropping his coffee in his lap when d'Artagnan came into work last Friday wearing a perfectly-contoured white blouse and pencil skirt, the same heels, and his hair in a tight bun, and managed to hit every guilty fantasy Athos has ever had about bending d'Artagnan over his desk and having his wicked way with him, and create several new ones."</p><p>Kink Bingo fill: authority figures.<br/>Featuring art by <a href="http://nightquill.tumblr.com/">nightquill</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not the Secretary

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Glitter On And Under Skin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1749422) by [FunkyinFishnet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet). 



> Thank you to [FunkyinFishnet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/) for creating these iterations of Athos and d'Artagnan, and for kindly allowing me to play with them.

Athos has always found that the worst mornings are the ones when almost nobody else is in, and there's nothing urgent that needs doing.

He reads reflexively down his to-do list once more (handwritten, even though Aramis and Porthos keep mocking him for it, because it _does_ help him focus), then scans down his inbox to double-check he hasn't missed anything crucial, before reading his to-do list once more, as if something important will have miraculously appeared there in the last thirty seconds.

It hasn't, of course.

It's a Tuesday morning, it's a quarter to ten, and for once there are no problems with any of his accounts. Nor any queries. Not even anything to do for potential customers, the three new accounts that are in the pipeline all being at various stages of their own tediously slow internal processes.

There's the spec change presentation they're hosting next week still to do, but he needs to work with Porthos and Aramis on that, and they won't be back with the technical brief until this afternoon.

The Q3 sales figures aren't required until Thursday, and it doesn't need to be him who does that anyway. It would be a good job to give to d'Artagnan, in fact.

He glances up at the desk opposite him – and immediately wishes he hadn't.

He'd been _trying_ to forget about this.

Trying to forget that this morning at exactly five to nine, d'Artagnan walked – no, _sashayed_ into the office wearing the black leather dress and matching heels that Athos remembers entirely too well from the New Year's party, and completely destroyed his equilibrium and capacity for sensible thought in the process.

He was only glad that Porthos and Aramis weren't in to see him staring, because he really doesn't need to lose face in front of any more members of his team than he already has.

The problem's all his, he knows that; there's nothing inappropriate about what d'Artagnan's wearing, at least when he considers what he'd think of say, Constance wearing the same thing. It's just a simple shift dress with a boat neck, hitting exactly at the knee, and nipped in ever so slightly at the waist. Fitting d'Artagnan's body as perfectly as the clothes of his mother and her old-money friends, the benefits of knowing a professional tailor all too clear.

And the _heels –_ dear God, the heels. Matching black leather, tapering to a pointed toe; and they must be three inches high, d'Artagnan's legs seeming to go on for _miles_.

D'Artagnan raises his head then, clearly feeling himself being looked at; and tucks his hair behind one ear in a gesture that absolutely _does not help_ , and _is he wearing eyeliner?_

"Mmm?"

Athos' eye catches a movement under the desk as d'Artagnan uncrosses and re-crosses his legs, light catching the line of smooth brown shin as it shifts.

_Oh God._

He was meaning to ask if d'Artagnan could pull the EMEA figures from SalesForce for him; but what comes out of his mouth instead is, "Are you free tonight?"

D'Artagnan's eyes light up at that, smile starting to bloom across his face for a second – before it falls again that same instant. "I'm afraid Constance and I are doing dinner and a show. We're going straight from work. Another time though?"

"Of course," Athos replies shortly, too put out for a moment to say anything more; and he disappears back behind his computer screen, taking a drink of his coffee to try and hide his disappointment, that seems entirely out of proportion to him.

He swears his coffee tastes better when d'Artagnan makes it.

 _This is ridiculous_.

He reminds himself for possibly the third time this week that d'Artagnan's not his secretary; although that didn't stop him nearly dropping his coffee in his lap when d'Artagnan came into work last Friday wearing a perfectly-contoured white blouse and pencil skirt, the same heels, and his hair in a tight bun, and managed to hit every guilty fantasy Athos has ever had about bending d'Artagnan over his desk and having his wicked way with him, and create several new ones.

All that was missing was a pair of thick-framed glasses; and when Aramis made the same observation half way through the morning, the lazy appreciation in his voice made Athos want nothing more than to stride over to d'Artagnan and thoroughly mark his territory, before briefly wishing for the ground to swallow him up as he realised the implications of his reaction.

No, he should definitely not be thinking like this.

Eyes still fixed firmly on his computer monitor, Athos hears d'Artagnan get up and head towards the door, at which point his eyes absolutely do _not_ drift over to watch his arse as he disappears from view, swinging his hips ever so slightly as if he's on a catwalk.

If Athos didn't know better, he'd swear d'Artagnan is doing it deliberately.

He needs to do some damn work.

Athos takes a deep breath, cracks his knuckles, and decides to start by answering an email from Pierre in Sales that he's been putting off, which at least won't require too much brain power.

Which is good, because he has to stop a few times to press his hands to his eyes, in an attempt to rid himself of the unhelpful thoughts that keep crowding into his mind. The memory of the last time he saw d'Artagnan in that dress, and what they'd done afterwards, proving rather persistent.

 _Please God_ , he thinks, sighing as he rubs his temples, _let there be a crisis. Supply cock-up, technical failures, anything. Even an angry customer calling to shout at me about something that's actually their fault._

He's just about figured out what he's going to say to Pierre when d'Artagnan's head pops back around the office door.

"Athos, could you come and help me with something?"

"Of course," he replies, getting up and following d'Artagnan along the corridor, most definitely _not_ looking at his legs in that dress, the way his calves taper into almost delicate ankles, the points of his stiletto heels, remembering how d'Artagnan had put them back on –

He's distracted enough that when d'Artagnan suddenly grabs him by the arm, pulls him into the stationery cupboard and shuts the door behind them, he's taken thoroughly by surprise.

"What –"

"Shh," d'Artagnan murmurs, placing a finger on Athos' lips, a gesture far more intimate than he was expecting. He realises d'Artagnan is very close all of a sudden, and resists the urge to put his hands on his waist as d'Artagnan clicks on the light, the clunking whirr of the extractor fan kicking in a second later.

There must be _some_ reason why they're in the stationery cupboard together other than the obvious, but Athos can't think for the life of him what that might be.

Judging by the bold, intriguing smile on d'Artagnan's face as he just looks at Athos for a moment, his first instinct was probably right.

"D'Artagnan, this is –" Athos waves his hand at their surroundings, the reasons for his protest surely self-evident even to d'Artagnan.

They are in a _stationery cupboard_ , and d'Artagnan appears to be proposing the biggest office cliché imaginable (well, excepting Athos' own secretary fantasies from the other day, he reminds himself guiltily, but never mind that now). The room, if one can call it that, is windowless and barely six feet square, lit only by a single bare energy-saving lightbulb dangling from the ceiling; the shelves lining the walls are on one side full of old elastic bands, an unlikely amount of stackable filing trays and never any decent pens, and on the other side piles of toilet roll and industrial cleaning supplies.

It's hardly sexy.

"The only place with a door that locks," d'Artagnan points out, looking unbearably smug. "The toilets excepted, of course."

"I draw the line at having sex in the toilets," Athos retorts – and realises a moment too late what he's just implied. " _And_ in here, for that matter."

D'Artagnan raises an eyebrow, in that way he does that's simultaneously sexy and infuriating. "Well, you don't have to do anything, of course, but I certainly intend to, so I recommend you stay for the show."

He _is_ wearing eyeliner, Athos decides; and it is that that tips him over the edge, not that he needs a great deal of tipping.

Aramis and Porthos aren't in until the afternoon. Tréville's not in all day. The chances of anyone wandering up to their office unannounced, rather slim.

_Fuck it._

He lifts his hand, and traces along the neckline of d'Artagnan's dress with one finger, barely brushing the skin there, and is satisfied when d'Artagnan's breath hitches ever so slightly.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me, showing up here in that dress?" Athos asks him, voice low and dangerous.

"What _I_ do to _you_?" d'Artagnan replies, sounding simultaneously surprised and amused. "I'm not the one sitting there day after day in my pinstripe waistcoat with rolled-up shirtsleeves and ink all over my fingers."

Athos frowns. "How is that –"

"Sexy?" d'Artagnan's grin flashes in the low light. "For someone so smart, sometimes you're surprisingly clueless."

Athos can honestly say he's never thought about it. He knows he dresses well, but it's only what's expected of him. Both considering his background, and the business he now does.

He'd never realised it might have another kind of effect.

He thinks then about how d'Artagnan looks in a trouser suit, shirt and tie – and it is an attractive image, but it's attractive because _he's_ attractive, and not because it turns Athos into a dry-mouthed wreck in the same way as d'Artagnan in a tight-fitting pencil skirt that's slit to mid-thigh and a pair of heels that make him half a head taller than Athos, even.

Still, different strokes and all that.

"Turn around for me?"

"Sure," d'Artagnan turns to face the shelves, holding himself still as Athos takes one of the elastic bands from the shelf beside him, sliding it onto his wrist before gathering up d'Artagnan's hair in his hands, combing it gently through with his fingers, twisting and tying it up into a rough bun.

D'Artagnan shivers when Athos presses a kiss to the nape of his neck.

When d'Artagnan turns back to face him, his smile is broad, and _knowing_. "Better?" he asks, lifting a pencil from the shelf and pushing it through his bun.

Athos swallows, suddenly nervous.

It's a relief that he doesn't have to explain, really. But.

They're not doing anything wrong, he reminds himself. _He's_ not doing anything wrong. After New Year he talked to Tréville, who took over his role as d'Artagnan's line manager; and as far as the staff code of conduct is concerned, there are no further issues.

Well, what they may be about to do in the stationery cupboard notwithstanding.

But he's far less bothered about that than he is about the guilty clenching in his stomach that reminds him d'Artagnan is still his subordinate; and that he really shouldn't be getting off on that power dynamic at all, even such an appallingly clichéd version of it – which of course only serves to make the whole idea even more erotic.

It's okay, though, if d'Artagnan understands. Right?

D'Artagnan who is reaching out and pulling Athos towards him by the tie, until there's barely an inch of space between them. "Is there something I can do for you, _sir_?" he practically purrs into Athos' ear.

Oh yes, d'Artagnan _clearly_ understands; and it is that which finally gives Athos the courage to follow through.

"Get up there," he replies, in his best bored aristocrat's voice, lazily indicating the low shelf at d'Artagnan's back, which is waist-height and mostly free of office supplies.

D'Artagnan sweeps a pile of old Lever-Arch files to one side and hops up, perching himself on the edge of the shelf. It puts him a full head above Athos, thighs level with Athos' waist; and Athos steps forward to stand between d'Artagnan's legs, running his hands up d'Artagnan's thighs without preamble, and underneath his dress.

What he finds is _not_ what he was expecting.

Athos had expected a pair of snug boxer briefs, the kind he knows d'Artagnan wears beneath his suit trousers, or jeans on the weekend. The kind he'd had on under the dress at New Year's.

But this time he finds lace and satin nestled at the juncture between hipbone and thigh; and holding his breath in sudden heady anticipation, Athos pushes the skirt of d'Artagnan's dress up to his waist.

Even in the poor lighting he can make out the lines of d'Artagnan's already-hard cock, standing out in relief beneath the black satin; and he just looks for a long moment, mouth dry, briefly spellbound.

"Like what you see?" d'Artagnan asks suggestively, his smile sharp and challenging – and the difference between his nervous, hurried passion of just a few short months ago and this new, confident sexuality is somewhat shocking.

Athos immediately wants to do everything in his power to reward it.

"You wanted to give me a show," he replies, leaning back against the doorframe and folding his arms. "So give me one."

He watches d'Artagnan's face carefully for any sign that he's gone too far, or isn't playing this the right way – but there's no mistaking the heat that fills d'Artagnan's gaze as he leans back on one hand, the other reaching between his legs, nails – long nails, a few millimetres of white at the tips, and when did that happen? – tracing the outline of his cock through the silken fabric.

His eyelids flutter half-closed. Athos can hear him suck in a breath over the noise of the extractor fan.

"Obviously I'll be grading your performance today," Athos comments.

D'Artagnan raises an eyebrow. "Obviously."

For a few seconds, neither of them move.

"In your own time," Athos prompts, allowing his mouth to curl into a smirk.

Slow and deliberate, d'Artagnan sits up straighter, hooks both thumbs into the waistband of his knickers – and the image that suddenly fills Athos' mind is deliciously, delightfully sinful.

"I want to see those round your ankles."

D'Artagnan smiles, shuffles back a little and lifts his legs up, hooking his heels into the edge of the shelf, and blocking Athos' view of anything lower than his chest as he shifts side to side. A few moments later he slides the knickers over his knees and down his calves, dragging the moment out, before letting go of them at his ankles, leaving them to drape over the tops of his feet.

The tension seems almost too much for the tiny room to contain.

Then d'Artagnan lowers his legs, leaning back on one hand again, and wrapping the other around the base of his cock.

Athos honestly forgets how to breathe for a moment.

The sight is _mesmerising_.

D'Artagnan holds Athos' gaze for the first few strokes of his hand; but then his eyes flutter shut and his head tilts back on a silent gasp, baring his throat.

At least half of Athos wants to walks over and bite down there, but he resists the temptation. Right now he's determined not to move a muscle, just to stay right where he is and let d'Artagnan do this.

It goes deeper than just sex, deeper than any predilections of his own that d'Artagnan is indulging. It's about him becoming more comfortable in his own skin, and in whatever clothing he chooses to wear; about showing him that he's desired, and that Athos is fully satisfied to just watch him like this.

And what a sight it is: d'Artagnan with his face raised to the ceiling, displaying the long line of his neck, the neck of the dress falling just under his collarbones. The bunched-up leather pooled at his waist, and his hand steady and unselfconscious on his cock; sliding his foreskin up and down the shaft, twisting slightly back and forth at the wrist, the way Athos knows he likes. His legs spread as wide as he can, with his knickers stretched between his ankles.

It's filthy and glorious in every way possible, and Athos' fingers ache with the urge to reach out, curling and uncurling by his sides.

Then d'Artagnan drops his head to look Athos in the eye once more, a few strands of hair falling forward over his face where they've escaped from his bun. There's something vulnerable in his expression, something needy; and Athos reaches for him without a second thought.

He steps forward, leans down and unhooks the knickers from d'Artagnan's ankles, balls them up and puts them in his trouser pocket; and feels the rush of power physically in his chest.

Athos puts his hands on d'Artagnan's knees and pushes them apart, stepping forward and between them, leaning his body against the shelf as his hands come up to tuck d'Artagnan's loose hair behind his ears; then he takes his jaw in hand and caresses briefly, pressing his thumb to d'Artagnan's lip.

"Gorgeous," he murmurs. "Don't stop."

He puts his hands back on d'Artagnan's thighs, slides them slowly up almost to his groin, and then back down all the way to his ankles.

"When you came into the office last week in that skirt and blouse, all I could think about was bending you over my desk," Athos continues, voice low and measured, enunciating every syllable as his eyes flick down to where d'Artagnan's hand has sped up on his cock, and then back up to his face again.

"I'd make you put your palms on the surface and keep them there, while I pulled your skirt up and your knickers down, and worked you open with my fingers. Then I'd push my cock inside you and fuck you, right there on my desk. I'd come inside you, and then I'd reach around and stroke your cock, until you came too, all over my work. Then I'd make you sit and rewrite every word of it for me, with my come dripping slowly out of you. Would you like that?"

"God, yes," d'Artagnan pants, hand moving frantically now. "Athos – please – can I –"

Athos smirks, quite deliberately. "It's _may I,_ not _can I_ , but I'll let it go this time. And be my guest."

It's only a few more strokes of his hand before d'Artagnan comes, with a stifled groan; and Athos doesn't know where to look, wants to look everywhere at once, eyes moving back and forth between the look of dazed pleasure on d'Artagnan's face, and the come dripping milky-white down his cock and over his fist as he works himself through the aftershocks.

Athos pulls the pocket square from the front of his waistcoat, whips it open with a flourish, and cups his own hand around d'Artagnan's, wiping him clean with thorough gentleness.

It's only then Athos realises they haven't kissed, this entire time; and he drops his now-ruined pocket square carelessly on the shelf, puts his hands on d'Artagnan's waist and kisses him thoroughly, until they're both breathless.

Then he takes d'Artagnan's hand in his, turns it over, and kisses his wrist, keeping eye contact throughout. "Thank you. That was – truly something."

D'Artagnan grins back at him, looking almost deliriously happy. "Can I –" he indicates towards Athos' crotch.

"Thank you, but no," Athos replies. "Watching you was pleasure enough in itself."

"And you did say you wouldn't have sex in the stationery cupboard," d'Artagnan chuckles.

"Quite. And I always keep my word."

"Can I have my underwear back then, please?"

Athos' hand is in his pocket, and closes around the ball of silky fabric just as a new idea occurs to him.

He takes a deliberate step back, and raises an eyebrow.

D'Artagnan stares at him, something fearful in his expression as he catches on. "Athos –"

Athos relents immediately, holding out the knickers with a smile, and noting the gratefulness in d'Artagnan's expression as he takes them, before pushing himself off the shelf, and Athos turns around to give him some privacy while he puts everything in order.

He was never going to keep them against d'Artagnan's will, of course, but the idea itself is intriguing. Some food for thought, at least.

A tap on his shoulder, and he turns back to see d'Artagnan, fully dressed, and beaming at him. "Ready to go."

Athos reaches for the pencil that's still in d'Artagnan's hair, but a hand to his wrist stays him. "Leave it," d'Artagnan says, "I rather like it."

"Alright," Athos replies, amused, and gives him a last kiss before opening the door a crack to check the corridor, which is thankfully empty.

"It _is_ a pity you don't have your own office," d'Artagnan says quietly, as they walk back down the corridor.

"Perhaps I could show you my home office one evening this week," Athos offers, and feels a sudden warmth as d'Artagnan smiles and squeezes his hand.

"I'd like that."

The next morning, d'Artagnan turns up wearing a blue silk blouse, a pinstripe pencil skirt and heels. When he walks around the edge of his desk, it's to reveal that he's wearing old-fashioned seamed stockings; and Athos has to bite his lip for a moment to keep his face under control.

"Morning, d'Artagnan," Porthos calls out, in a voice dark with amusement, as Aramis lets out a low whistle, looking from d'Artagnan to Athos and quirking an eyebrow suggestively.

Athos says nothing in response, just drops his gaze and picks up his pen again, repressing the smile that's threatening to take over his face.

At the bottom of the day's to do list, he writes, in practiced copperplate: _Leave office on time_ , and underlines it for good measure.

* * *

[ ](http://i.imgur.com/WWO8RDG.jpg)

Art by [nightquill](http://nightquill.tumblr.com/)


End file.
